


Budding Rose

by alexconfusion



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/F, Sisters of Quiet Mercy Group Home (Riverdale), Swearing, choni
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-01-14 22:03:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18485278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexconfusion/pseuds/alexconfusion
Summary: What if Toni Topaz and Cheryl Blossom were childhood best friends? How would they have met? What were they like? Did they fall in love earlier?A quiet Monday afternoon art class is where their story begins.





	1. Sinkhole

**Author's Note:**

> Cheryl Blossom is a seventh grader at Sweetwater Middle School, doing her best to keep pencils sharpened and her head above water, when Toni Topaz wanders into one of her classes. What will happen when Cheryl and Toni meet five years before they were supposed to?

“Alright class, turn to page fifty seven. Since we’re running out of time, we’re going to have to skip around a bit. Are there any volunteers to read the second to last paragraph?”

Cheryl Blossom bites down on her lower lip, trying to keep her eyelids from slipping shut. The toes of her sneakers barely graze the tiled floor as her feet swing back and forth, back and forth, back and forth underneath her desk.

Mrs. Botelho, the sandy haired science teacher, scans the classroom for any willing participants. “No one? How about you, Jason?”

“Moon phases,” Cheryl’s twin brother, Jason Blossom, begins in a loud, clear voice. “The first phase of the moon -as shown in diagram one- is the new moon. In this phase, the moon appears invisible in the sky. The reason for this is that the side of the moon facing the earth is not being lit by the sun.”

“Very good, Mr. Blossom. Who can explain-”

The students let out a collective sigh of relief as the teacher is cut off by the piercing wail of the bell.

Cheryl pulls her things out of her desk and springs to her feet. She hurries to the door, eager to get to her favorite -and final- class. Art. (Although, her mother doesn’t consider it a ‘real’ class. Cheryl sometimes thinks that could be part of the reason why she often favors Jason; His favorite class is History. He’s the perfect boy in their mother’s eyes, while it was no secret that Cheryl had been left to play the part of the unwanted twin her whole life.)

Clasping her folder securely to her chest, Cheryl walks down the corridor as quickly as she can without getting in trouble for quote-unquote “running”. Her whole body seems to relax when she arrives at the door covered in colorful construction paper and splattered in neon paint at the end of the hall.

“Hello, Cheryl!” Ms. Arnolds, the art teacher, greets.“Come right in.”

The redhead breathes in the strong scent of paint and chalk as she slides into her usual seat in the back corner of the room, letting herself escape the outside world for the first time that day.

“Excuse me, do you know where I sit?”

A short girl wearing black combat boots stands before Cheryl, her tan face half shrouded by long locks of wavy brown hair.

Cheryl blinks. It’s always been rather unusual for people to willingly approach her, seeing as she’s universally seen as a stuck up, heartless narcissist. (Her brother was the charismatic golden boy. She’s just waiting for her turn in the spotlight.) “Oh, there aren’t assigned seats in art. You can sit next to me though.” Her gaze dropped. “If you want to, that is. No pressure.”

When she looks up again, she’s happy -albeit a little confused- to see that the girl in black combat boots had chosen to take the place beside her instead of finding a different table.

The girl shifts in her chair. “My name’s Toni Topaz. It’s my first day here, because my old school got shut down.”

“Toni Topaz is a pretty name,” Cheryl muses, fiddling with her pencil eraser. “I’m Cheryl Blossom, by the way.”

“Blossom,” Toni repeats. “It suits you. You remind me of a flower.”

Cheryl hides the blush spreading across her lightly freckled cheeks by pretending to tie her shoe. “So, new girl, how are you liking it here at Sweetwater Middle School?”

“It’s, uh.. Different. From what I’m used to, that is.”

“What do you mean?”

“For one, I’m guessing you guys don’t get warnings such as ‘watch out for the blood!’ after the daily fistfights,” Toni says, shaking her head with a laugh.

“Fair point. We don’t.” Cheryl tucks a piece of the other girl’s hair behind her ear, aching to be granted permission to explore her sparkling chestnut eyes until she found the answers to all the questions she hadn’t asked yet. “I hope we have more classes together.”

A dimpled smile adorns Toni’s face. “Me too. I’d rather hang out with you than some random loser I don’t know at all.”

“I think we’re going to be good friends.”

“I _know_ we’re going to be good friends.”

“Good afternoon, everybody!” Ms. Arnolds beams at her class from the front of the room. “Today, in addition to continuing our unit on painting, we’re going to be joined by a new student- Toni Topaz. She’s one of us now, so treat her as such. Your projects are on the back counter. Get to work, kids!”

Toni pushes her chair back, imitating Cheryl’s actions in a meak attempt to blend in.

“Don’t worry about not knowing what to do, I’ll help you get started and everything.”

“Thanks, Cher.”

“Cher?”

“Sorry, I kind of have a bad habit of calling people by stupid nicknames, I don’t have to call you that if you don’t-”

“No, I like it.” A gentle curve shapes Cheryl’s lips. “Nobody’s ever given me a nickname before.” (She refuses to count her father, who calls her ‘darling’. The way he says it just makes her feel dirty, even though he keeps telling her she should be okay with it.)

Toni glances at Cheryl shyly, wondering if she should believe her. “You really like it?”

“I do. Now follow me, you need to get started on your project.”

“What exactly is this project about?”

Cheryl struts to the back of the room, finding a shelf of incomplete art. “We’re each painting something that’s important in our lives or means something to us. We’ve only been working for two classes, so you’re not even that far behind.”

“Interesting..” Toni takes the blank canvas that Cheryl hands to her. “..I have a feeling I’m going to be terrible at this.”

“Well _I_ have a feeling you’re going to be incredible at this.”

The two girls find their way back to the table, spilling various tubes of paint and a plethora of paint brushes out of their arms and onto the tabletop.

Cheryl sets her unfinished painting on the easel by the table. “..What do you think? It’s obviously not done, but it looks like how I imagined it.”

“That’s.. Wow, Cheryl.”

A boy with spiked red hair stands in the center, arms outstretched and shielding a girl with long red hair (presumably Cheryl) who cowers on the left side. On the right is a hideous monster, a dark mass lacking all physical and facial features aside from a large, cheshire grin.

“I call it ‘My Hero’,” Cheryl murmurs, studying the details of the boy’s face.

Toni takes a step closer. “Is that your brother?”

Cheryl nods. “Yeah. That’s Jay-Jay.”

“You’re _fantastic_.”

“That makes two of us, then, Toni Topaz.”

Running her hand along the row of paintbrushes, Toni decides on a long, slender one with a subtly textured handle. “Really, though,” she continues as she dips it into the splotch of red on the paper plate, “you’re the best artist I know.”

“Thanks, TT.”

Toni doesn’t directly acknowledge the nickname she had just been given, but her sinkhole dimples deepen and something about the way she stands seems more confident.

Cheryl makes sure she selects the same robust paintbrush she had used for the background last time to use now. The stiff bristles drag lazily through the thick, deep blue hues, blending into the perfect navy swirl.

Silence cloaks their corner of the room as Toni traces smooth, curved lines and Cheryl methodically weaves strokes of blue around each figure in her scene.

Satisfied with the red portion of her painting, Toni drops her paintbrush into the water cup to soak. She purses her lips. After a moment of thought, she decides to take a break and watch Cheryl while her canvas dries.

Cheryl, Toni notices, tends to look _into_ her painting, instead of  _at_ it like everyone else. (Toni will never admit this, but she secretly hopes that Cheryl looks at _her_ differently than everyone else, too.)

As the taller girl swipes her brush across snow white pastures of empty space, Toni’s gaze drifts from the rouge paintbrush in her hand up to her face.

Cheryl’s forehead is slightly crinkled, and her lips are parted. She was made to be an artist, she must have been. (Either that, or she was made to be an art _exhibit_.)

It’s a few minutes before Cheryl notices Toni stopped painting. She turns to meet the other girl’s eyes, her initial confusion softening into an odd combination of embarrassment and pride. “Hey, Toni.”

“Hey, Cheryl.”

They stare at each other a moment, a pair of gentle chestnut eyes finding light in the darkest corners of a pair of near-black mocha eyes.

Cheryl is suddenly hyper-aware of her own breathing, the continuous _tap, tap, tap_ of the fan hitting the blinds, her steadily increasing heart rate, the fact Toni’s nose is three and a half inches away from her own.

Toni stays completely still, unable to tear her gaze away from Cheryl’s. (Plus, she learns that her breath smells like cherry cough drops. The good ones, not the ones the nurse gives you when she knows you’re faking a sore throat.)

Cheryl looks away. (It isn’t long before she’s wishing she didn’t.)

“Cher? Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m good.” (Cheryl is definitely not ‘good’. She’s also definitely not ‘bad’. If she’s being honest, she hasn’t really known anything since Toni walked into the art room and chose to come to her. Not any other student, not the teacher, _her_.)

Toni’s dimples appear again, though notably more shallow. (Is that Cheryl’s fault?)

“TT, that’s beautiful.” The redhead points to Toni’s easel.

Her sinkhole dimples deepen. (Cheryl decides right then and there that making Toni smile could motivate her to do almost anything. She’s finally starting to lean more towards being ‘good’ than ‘bad’.)

“It’s a flower,” Toni explains, running a finger along the half dried streaks of paint. “A budding rose.” She turns to lock soft chestnut with mocha for the third time. “A blossom.”

The deafening echoes of Toni’s words drown out the final bell.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Cher.”

Cheryl closes her eyes, and when she opens them, the short brunette with black combat boots and sparkling chestnut eyes (and red fingertips and a bad habit of rambling and sinkhole dimples) is gone.


	2. Jagged Edges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cheryl Blossom is lost in her own mind, and the one person she knows can rescue her from herself has disappeared. Will they come back in time to save her?

Cheryl goes directly to her room after she gets home. She can’t tell if she’s going to laugh, or scream, or burst into tears, or all three. (Jay-Jay would know. But Cheryl doesn’t bother asking him about much anymore.)

She lets the air rush out of her lungs the minute she closes the door. Maybe all she needs is a moment to relax, to regroup her thoughts, then maybe she wouldn’t be so in the dark.

Crawling onto her bed, Cheryl wonders if Toni actually wants to see her again. She hopes so. (God, she hopes so.)

Cheryl lies on her back. The plain white ceiling leaves nothing to the imagination, yet somehow she still catches herself envisioning Toni’s budding rose blooming above her. (Although it sounds selfish, Cheryl wishes that she were Toni’s blossom instead of the painting.)

She clenches her hands into fists as freezing cold river water rushes into her head and she sits bolt upright because in that moment she realizes _someone is rattling her doorknob and she doesn’t know who it is._

“Cherry?”

She releases the breath she didn’t know she had been holding. Jason doesn’t scare her like her mother and father do. (Not that anybody would ever know that, obviously.)

Cheryl doesn’t respond. She trusts her brother, of course she does, she just doesn’t think he can help her like he used to.

“Look, I don’t know why you’re not talking to me-”

An angry, boiling hot tear forms in the corner of one of Cheryl’s near-black mocha eyes. (He _used_ to know.)

“-but mom is coming upstairs to talk to you. I figured you at least deserve fair warning.”

The tiny droplet rushes down her face, searing a line into her skin.

“I tried to talk her out of it, I promise I did, but she wouldn’t listen to me.”

Cheryl turns away from the door. More raindrops follow the first and soon a storm is brewing, and it swirls and coils inside of her stomach. She scrapes at the tear track that’s been left behind on her cheek.

“I’m sorry, Cherry.”

She can see him in her mind, turning to walk away from her room, turning to walk away from _her_. (Sometimes she hates talking to him, or even thinking about him. He’s a living, breathing reminder of all her failures, of every expectation he’s exceeded that she knows she will never come close to meeting.)

The hairs on her arms stand up when the _click, click, click_ of her mother’s heels on the stairs overpower the _thud, thud, thud_ of her heartbeat throbbing in her ears.

Cheryl pulls her knees to her chest and fights the urge to rock back and forth. Her lungs expand and contract uncontrollably, and the world is moving and it _shouldn’t_ be, and she’s stumbling over her own breath, and she wants to scream but she can’t, she can’t because of her mother, her mother who she’s sure is outside her door at this very moment and she can’t do anything about it.

“Cheryl.” (Her gravely voice is sour apple. It comes disguised as something nice, but it always burns in Cheryl’s throat and has a nasty aftertaste.)

Cheryl’s mouth moves, she tries to formulate a response, but only air comes out.

“I just want to talk.”

(Of course she does. She always does, but she never wants to listen.)

“Remember that group home I mentioned during dinner last night?”

The sickly sweet sugar floss lacing her mother’s words makes Cheryl sick to her stomach. “That’s only meant for troubled children, mommy,” she manages to choke out in a hoarse whisper.

“Yes, you’re exactly right! That’s what I need to talk to you about.”

Cheryl hugs her legs tighter to her body. (She doesn’t understand why her mother is so dead set on winning a one sided war, she doesn’t understand why she can’t ever just lay the weapons down and stop fighting.)

“After school tomorrow, you’re going to be getting an.. Evaluation. Just to make sure everything is alright in your brain. Nothing to be nervous about.”

Obviously she thinks there’s something wrong with Cheryl. Everyone seems to. (Everyone except the short brunette with sinkhole dimples and black combat boots.) “What am I being evaluated for?” Cheryl regrets saying anything the moment it spills from her thoughts into the air.

“Do you remember that little chat we had last year? About Heather?”

“Yes, mommy.”

“Daddy and I simply want to know you’re no longer having any of those abnormal, deviant thoughts.” (Her cheery tone tastes, to Cheryl, like gum that’s lost its flavor. Tasteless and bland, attempting to be something that its not.)

“Alright, mommy.” It’s barely above a whisper, and Cheryl is beyond grateful that it satisfies her mother for the time being.

The word  _deviant_ forces a shard of glass into the left side of Cheryl’s heart. She hates that word more than anything.

Tsunamis are beginning to swell behind her near-black mocha eyes as she fails to recall a girl named Heather for the millionth time. (When she tries to imagine her, she just finds fragments of a broken memory- Orange pill bottles rolling across the tearstained table. Screaming and kicking, clamping her mouth shut as someone coaxes her to open wide.)

She can hear the sound of heels retreating, so she’s confused when she can’t regain her breath and her sky is still jet black.

Cheryl presses her face into her knees. She prays that nothing is wrong with her, that her mother is wrong. (In the back of her mind, something tells her that her mother’s idea of her being fine is not the same as her own.)

Squeezing her eyes shut, Cheryl thinks of the girl with the textured paintbrush who lit her world on fire for the first time.

Toni Topaz is an enigma to Cheryl Blossom. (An enigma she hopes she will never solve, just so she can spend forever trying.)

 _Forever_ leaves a bittersweet taste in her mouth. (Cheryl was taught that true love is supposed to be forever, that family is supposed to be forever. She’s been proven wrong so many times she wonders how she even has any hope left.)

_“Cher?”_

Cheryl lurches backwards and tsunami tides streak down her face. Her head pounds from the sudden movement, but she doesn’t care because that’s  _Toni's_  nickname for her and that's _Toni’s voice_ and nothing else matters anymore _._

“TT?” She searches her room for red tipped fingers and studded combat boots.

_“You need to get out of here. It’s not safe.”_

Cheryl’s lips purse. The isn’t Toni. She wishes it was, but she can’t ignore what’s real. (It’s jagged around the edges instead of frayed, and it puts emphasis on all the wrong words.) “..You’re not her.”

_“Yes I am, please, just listen to me-”_

“You’re not Toni, you’re not Toni, _you’re not my Toni!_ ” Cheryl wails, daggers of truth ripping into her throat. All she can taste is metal, all she can see it darkness, all that she wants is for Toni to be standing next to her.

Cheryl collapses onto the floor. “You’re not _my_ Toni.” Her shirt is stained, her eyes are red and swollen, her chest aches, she doesn’t _care_.

She digs through the side pocket in her backpack until her left hand latches onto the paintbrush with the textured handle. _Her_ paintbrush. (She plans on giving it to Toni tomorrow when she sees her again.)

“Cheryl, Jason, it’s time for dinner.” (Her mother sounds like when Cheryl scrapes her teeth together or when her nails drag along a metal surface.)

Cheryl doesn’t move. She just grips the brush tighter in her palm, running the cherry stained bristles along her right forearm.

Her mother is calling for her again, but all Cheryl can hear is not-Toni’s voice telling her to _listen_. (She wants to listen. She wants to find her. She wants to run away.)

Sour apple explodes on Cheryl’s tongue, and the voice of her mother slices through the jagged corner each plea from faux Toni produces.

The words coming at her from all directions blend and mix into a string of syllables and harsh flavors that over power Cheryl’s palate- Bitter cranberries, orange creamsicle, cherry cola, and hot sauce that makes the roof of her mouth tingle.

“Stop it-” Cheryl suppresses a whimper as a high pitched, acidic ringing shoots through the hazy smog of chaos that surrounds her trembling body. (The feeling is highlighter yellow and puce green and it tastes like pepper and it’s so goddamn _overwhelming_ and Cheryl hates that her mother is probably right about something being wrong with her.)

“Cheryl Marjorie Blossom, what do you think you’re doing?”

Blurry outlines of her mother and Jason are standing in the doorframe. Cheryl’s head drops into her palms and she can’t hear anything, but she can taste the peppermint candy cane of Jason’s lips when he pulls her into his lap.

He doesn’t leave her this time. He doesn’t let go of her before she’s okay this time.

Cheryl clutches the folds of his shirt in her fist, burying her face into his neck. (Jason is G sharp minor. Hauntingly beautiful. The way he’s both lost and home all at once. How he’s got the kind of look in his eye, like no matter what anyone says, he’s only there for you and nobody else matters.)

Their mother is silent. Her empty scalpel blade stare never leaves her son, never lands on her daughter. She turns on her heel and is halfway downstairs before either of her children get the chance to say anything.

“Jay-Jay, I don’t want to go to the group home,” Cheryl admits, breath hitching in her chest at the word ‘home’. (Home, to her, has only ever been with Jason, and she knows how her mother longs to take that away.)

He combs his fingers gently through her hair with a nod. “I know.” (His voice spills across her jet black sky, casting beam of sunlight onto the clouds encasing her mind. Cheryl often compares it to her favorite worry stone, or running water.)

She sinks deeper into Jason’s hold. “Who is Heather, Jay-Jay?” It tumbles out of her mouth before she can make an effort to stop them, but the regret that usually comes with a slip up isn’t there.

“Heather was.. Well, she was everything to you. You first met her at the beginning of last year, but you were immediately inseparable. She came over almost every weekend. During your first sleepover, though..” Jason struggles to find the right words. “I think mom found you two sleeping in the same bed.”

Cheryl’s eyebrows furrow. “That doesn’t make any sense. When I think of Heather, I see pill bottles and tears and screaming, and I don’t like thinking about that so I don’t like thinking about _her._ ”

Jason catches his lower lip between his teeth, dropping his gaze to the floor. “Do you remember that group home mom loves to bring up so much?”

“Yeah.” (The phrase ‘group home’ takes up a large portion of her mother’s dialect.)

“She sent you there once. I don’t know what they did to you, but every day you’d come back less and less like yourself. You got put on medication shortly after that. Soon, Heather’s name was cut out of your vocabulary and you seemed to have forgotten all about her.”

The ringing in Cheryl’s ears makes her vision begin to warp and collapse in on itself. “I can’t believe she would do that to me,” she murmurs, face vacant of expression and words hollow.

Jason’s arms tighten around his sister’s torso. He traces delicate patterns on her back, resting his head atop hers. (Cheryl relishes the moment. His touch reminds her of sitting in front of a blazing fire after a cold winter day.)

“I promise I’ll protect you from her, Cherry.”

Cheryl exhales, trusting that the boy with flaming red hair and worry stone voice (and peppermint candy cane lips and G sharp minor eyes) wouldn’t abandon her again.


	3. Cinnamon Sugar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can Cheryl's world really change in the matter of a heartbeat?
> 
> (Also, notes are giving me problems atm so if I leave them out or there's two, that would be why)

Five more minutes. That’s three hundred seconds. Around four hundred heartbeats.

Cheryl’s near-black mocha eyes focus on the clock in the front of the art room, her leg jiggling furiously to match the steady _tick, tick, tick, tick_. (The feeling is electric green, she decides. It’s been a long, long time since she’s felt electric green.)

Her heart lurches in her chest as she glances to the empty seat beside her. (There’s still time, Toni’s still coming, she still has three hundred and twenty heartbeats.)

Cotton candy blue pricks Cheryl’s tongue when she looks over at her unfinished painting sitting on the easel beside her. It looks the same as it did yesterday. Unfinished. (Yesterday it was beautifully incomplete. Today it just feels like half of a whole, like watered down apple juice.)

Cheryl wrings her hands, aching for Toni’s touch, for her voice, for everything she had to offer. (No wonder her mother thinks she’s going off the rails. Sometimes even _she_ can’t deny it.)

“Cheryl? Is everything alright?” Mrs. Arnold’s voice is smooth at every angle, contrasting the ragged and torn edges of Toni’s so sharply that Cheryl can feel the bottom dropping out of her stomach.

She nods, knowing the sentiment doesn’t quite reach her eyes or show on her face or really mean anything at all. “Yeah. I’m fine.” A question erupts in her mind, and before she can _shut up_ , she’s already asking, “Do you know if Toni Topaz is out? Or if she doesn’t have this class today?”

Mrs. Arnold’s facial expression transitions from summer to fall (even if she tries to hide it). “Toni lives on the South Side, Cheryl. I don’t know why so many people discriminate against them, but they do, and there was a disagreement between the North and South Side last night that got violent.”

“What does any of this have to do with Toni?”

“Toni may have lost her home, sweetheart. The South Side children who's trailers got destroyed were sent to temporarily live in an orphanage while their families sort things out.”

Cheryl sees a tornado whizzing towards her on the horizon of her sky. (It howls and screams in her chest, spinning and churning until she feels dizzy and lost and hopeless all in one.)

The last bell of the day slices her thoughts in half. “Goodbye Mrs. Arnolds,” she says in a hollow whisper, hurrying to get out of the classroom, away from the memories of black combat boots and sinkhole dimples and a rambling voice that she might never hear again.

Cheryl wipes her nose on her sleeve and tastes copper in her mouth as she sprints down the hall with no regards for the rules. (Toni could be _anywhere_ at this exact moment _._ )

Her hand fumbles with the combination on her locker, and the other grapples with three multicolored folders and one red tipped paint brush.

The straps of her backpack dig into her shoulders, but she doesn’t mind because at least she’s going home, and while home might not have Toni, home has Jason and he’ll know what to do just like he always has and just like he always will.

Cheryl keeps her head hung low while she walks to protect herself from the rainbow of colors and smells and flavors and sounds that the crowd of students on their way out produces. (Toni isn’t like this, Toni is gentle and kind and faded and captivating and _hers_.)

She flinches when a hand rests on her arm and a rough voice begins to address her. “Ms. Blossom, your mother just called. She’ll be picking you up today.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sariva.” Cheryl pretends she’s not recoiling at his touch, forcing her lips into a smile.

Something twists in her gut and suddenly yesterday rushes back to her memory and slaps her across the face.

_“After school tomorrow, you’re going to be getting an.. Evaluation.”_

Numb. Numb and cold. Cheryl’s gaze darts from face to face, in search of a tuft of red hair, peppermint lips, G sharp minor eyes, _anything_ that could lead her to her brother. (“I promise I’ll protect you from her, Cheryl” he had said. It was baby blue the first time he said it, but now it feels closer to the dark blues and blacks she had used to paint the monster on her canvas.)

Cinnamon tickles the back of her throat. She suppresses a gag, swallowing the burning sensation before it can reach the floor. Jason has football practice. Jason is out on the field. Jason isn’t here to protect her.

Cheryl can feel the edge of her mother’s scalpel blade stare pressing against her cheek the moment she steps foot into the parking lot. The toes of her scuffed up grape-medicine converse drag along the sidewalk as she bullies herself into going against her better judgement and drawing nearer to her worst nightmare.

“If you don’t hurry up we’re going to be late,” Penelope chastises from the driver’s side.

Wincing at the lethal chemicals hidden below the surface of her mother’s placid expression and seemingly innocent words, Cheryl nods and slips into the other seat as her pulse hammers faster and faster.

Penelope shoots Cheryl a withering glance. “You’re positively shaking. Dear lord, Cheryl, this isn’t anything to be scared of. In fact, I believe you should be grateful.”

“Grateful?” Cheryl repeats, beginning to feel light headed.

“Do you really think anyone besides us -your _family_ \- would care enough about you to try to fix whatever it is that’s wrong with you?”

“But there’s nothing wrong with me.” (She hadn’t intended for this thought to leave her mind.)

“What did you just say to me?”

“I’m sorry, mommy, I-”

“This is why.” Penelope’s nostrils flare. She can’t even bring herself to look in her daughter’s direction. “You are disobedient, abnormal, deviant, and above all you don’t know your place.”

Cheryl shrinks back in her chair. (Her mother’s words are poison arrows, each aimed at her and in turn each more damaging than the next. She wonders if she’ll ever escape the prison that’s being built a little closer around her every day.)

She sighs, resting her head against the window. (It makes her think of when you’re chewing mint gum and drink cold water.)

Neither of them make another sound the whole rest of the car ride and, though Cheryl is beyond thankful for narrowly avoiding more scoldings, the silence is almost too loud for her to bear.

“We’re here,” Penelope drones when the road at last comes to an end.

Cheryl turns to look out the window, forgetting how to breathe momentarily at the wave of sensations swarming her. (Swallowing an ice cube whole, jumping into a pool directly after soaking in a hot tub, getting the backs of your shoes stepped on, the root beer flavored dum-dum lollipop.)

“What are you doing, get out already!”

“Yes, mommy.” Cheryl does as she was told, despite that little voice in the back of her head telling her not to.

Penelope leads the way to a pair of large, steel doors encased in cobwebs and strangled by vines. Her lips contort into the kind of smile that makes Cheryl’s stomach flip. (She’s wishing she hadn’t given her heart to Toni yesterday because maybe if she had it with her she would be a little braver.)

“Ah, Cheryl, Penelope. Right this way.” A nun emerges from the depths of the building, beckoning the pair into the foyer. “Wait right here. Sister Woodhouse will be with you shortly.”

She scurries off, leaving behind trails of sparkling water and lemon lime Gatorade behind her. (It makes the roof of Cheryl’s mouth feel sticky.)

The lights swaying from the ceiling cast a pale yellow glow around the room. It reminds her of watching the sunset while sitting on the patio in autumn.

Cheryl rocks on her heels, trying to distract herself from the tension growing between her and her mother. “Mommy, how long will this take?”

“Only a day or two. I have can’t stay the whole time, so you’re going to have to be ‘ _brave_ ’.” Penelope tightens her grip on her handbag. “And don’t give the Sisters too much trouble. They have enough damaged kids to take care of as it is, they don’t need you as an added burden.”

“Okay, mommy, I’ll do my best.” (Added burden? Is that all Cheryl is to her?)

“Good girl.”

“Hello, Mrs. Blossom, Cheryl. My name is Sister Woodhouse, I’ll be Cheryl’s therapist during her stay.” A gray haired woman strides into the room, adjusting her snow white cardigan.

(When Cheryl hears Sister Woodhouse’s voice, over salted french fries is the first thing that comes to mind. You always expect it to be good, but it’s unpleasant both the moment you taste it and the whole way down.)

“Go along, Cheryl,” Penelope prompts, pushing her daughter towards the nun.

Sister Woodhouse places a hand on the younger girl’s shaking shoulders. “Come, child, you shouldn’t be scared. Don’t you want to see God’s light?”

Cheryl nods. “Of course I do.” (Her mother doesn’t even bother to meet her eyes, despite how much effort Cheryl put into forcing her words to sound confidant.)

Penelope lets out a quiet breath of relief that Cheryl wishes she didn’t notice. (That’s the last thing she’ll hear from her for a few days, as her mother is quick to make a beeline for the exit after handing her over.)

“Dear lord, have I got my work cut out for me.” Sister Woodhouse’s grasp on Cheryl’s shoulder tightens. “Follow me. We’ll begin immediately, as it’s obvious this will take some time.” She moves her hand to Cheryl’s wrist, pulling her along like a dog on a leash.

“Sister?”

“What is it, child?”

“What do you think is.. _Wrong_ with me?”

The nun’s gate widens as she walks down the hallway. (Maybe she just wants to get away from Cheryl.) “You’ll see. Once you open your eyes to the light of the lord, you’ll see your sinning ways and you’ll want to change. To be _better_. My goal is to help you get to that point.”

Cheryl nods again, panting as Sister Woodhouse moves even faster.

Her feet hurt by the time they arrive at a rusting door with “Sister W.” engraved on it. (Static crackles in her ears, spikes of electric green streak her vision, bleach stings her nostrils.)

“Sit, sit.” Sister Woodhouse points to a chair in front of (what Cheryl assumes is) her desk, and offers a smile.

Cheryl swallows thickly and follows the directions she had been given, wincing as the legs of the chair scrape across the cement floor.

“So, tell me Ms. Blossom, what do you think of when you imagine a girl named Heather?”

“Pills. And crying.” (Thinking of Heather makes her head pound and fill with soapy water that fogs up her thoughts and scalds her brain.)

“Interesting.” Sister Woodhouse scrawls something down on her notepad. “Do you ever feel.. Happy, or euphoric when thinking of her?”

“No,” Cheryl mutters, scrunching her face up at snapshots of sobbing in the corner while a voice tells her to be a good little girl.

Sister Woodhouse runs her tongue along her upper lip. “How’s school, Cheryl? Do you have any friends? A boyfriend?”

Cheryl feels her body heating up and prays her face doesn’t match her hair. “I have a friend.” (That word is sour strawberry jolly rancher. Sweet on the outside, painfully loud traffic cone orange on the inside.)

“Tell me about this friend.”

“She has..” (Cheryl doesn’t know if she should talk about Toni out loud the way she does in her head.)

“She has what?”

“She has chestnut eyes. They sparkle when the light hits them the right way. Or when she’s talking about something she cares about.” (Shit.)

“Chestnut.. Eyes?” Sister Woodhouse jots something else down, letting out a long, dramatic sigh. “We have a lot of work to do. What else about your.. Friend?”

(Cheryl decides she shouldn’t say any more, but she’s not sure she’ll be able to keep her own promise.) “She.. She has black combat boots, and even though I just met her, I can tell it’s her coming just by the sound of her footsteps.”

“Is that all?”

“Her dimples.” The place directly behind Cheryl’s nose tingles as she tries to hold back the tears she can feel springing to her eyes. (It’s blue black. She’s never liked blue black.) “She has sinkhole dimples.”

Sister Woodhouse doesn’t look up from her clipboard this time. “Cheryl, stay right here while I give your mother a phone call. I hate to say it, but I do believe you may be here longer than we anticipated. You’re case is.. Rather severe.”

Cheryl kicks her feet back and forth under her chair while she waits, cursing herself in blue black for being such an _idiot_ , for being messed up to _begin with_ , for being too stupid to _know_ she’s messed up.

_“LET GO OF ME!”_

The chair legs screech against the floor as Cheryl lurches back at the explosion of rose petals and textured paint brush handles and nicknames and sour jolly ranchers and sinkhole dimples and black combat boots and chestnut eyes. (Oh no. Oh, god, no.)

A magenta whimper echoes through the hall and reverberates inside Cheryl’s skull. (No. Please, please, _please_ , be wrong.)

_“Don’t hurt me!”_

It’s frayed and worn and _real_ at every edge, and Cheryl hates it. (She hates it because it doesn’t belong here, she hates it because she was supposed to have heard it at 2:37 that afternoon, she hates it because she couldn’t save her before she got sent here.)

She hates it because she knows she’ll never forget it. (How can someone forget a voice that sounds like liquid gold and tastes like the springtime and smells like gummy bears and cinnamon sugar?)

“I’ll come back for you,” Cheryl murmurs as her world sinks into blue and black. “I’ll come back for you, TT.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't just not publish a chapter on 4/20 cmon


	4. Paper Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Toni doesn’t really care about the rules, but she knows many nuns at the Sisters of Quiet Mercy that do. Does she listen for once? Or does she continue to wreak havoc everywhere she goes?
> 
> alternative:
> 
> Toni Topaz preforms baddassery for 1,871 words straight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning : swearing

Toni stares into the blinding projector screen, absentmindedly playing with the cuffs of the uniform she had been given by one of the nuns.

She downs the cup in front of her as a video of two men replaces the man and woman.

Instantly, her world flashes red and neon yellow and a piercing shriek fills her head and she can barely see and everything is blurry and fuzzy, and she can feel pinecones digging into her throat. (Weak, weak, weak, she thinks, scolding herself. That’s what everyone always tells her. Now she’s wondering if they’re right.)

Sister Livingston nods her approval when Toni lunges for the bucket beside her chair. (All Toni wants to do is turn around and find _her_ Cheryl. But she’s somewhere else, she’s at school, she’s not here. _It’s because she’s normal,_ Toni thinks bitterly.)

The nun places another shot glass full of a dark liquid on the table. She turns to face the projector, a large grin forming on her lips.

A sigh of relief escapes Toni as a video of a bride and groom slides over top the video of the gay couple. Sister Livingston told her only to drink if two women or two men appear on screen together. (She knows better than to defy an order directly after being punished for being a pain in the ass for twenty four hours straight.)

She sinks back in her chair, kicking her heels against the floor.

Two women take the place of the wedding scene. (One has summer breeze hair and D major seven near-mocha eyes and paper butterfly wing lips and Toni can’t help but think of Cheryl again.)

She eyes the cup warily. (Tossing it down her throat, she decides that she’s not like her dad even if every time she’s ever come home this is what he’s doing.)

Toni’s skin crawls with malic acid and flavorless chewed up bubblegum and she’s surging towards the bucket again within seconds. (Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck._.)

Sister Livingston glances to the watch on her wrist, satisfied smirk securely in place. “I think you’ve had enough for today. Come, we’re going to have a little talk in my office.”

Sweat glistens on Toni’s forehead and she’s sure she’s shaking too much to move, but she manages to drag herself back into the office with the door that says “Sister L." on it. Her chest heaves wildly, matching her heart rate.

“What did you learn today?” Sister Livingston clasps her hands in front of her on the desk.

“I..” Toni shrugs. “I don’t know, Sister. Seeing happy gay couples should make me convulse and vomit? It doesn’t really seem to fit though, since God said to love everyone..” (It’s a bold move. Highlighter yellow. But she enjoys the thrill, so she decides not to stop here.)

Sister Livingston’s breath coats Toni’s face when she leans across the desk. “Antoinette, you have been here two days and you’ve been nothing but trouble. What do you think we should do about that?”

Toni shrinks back. “I don’t know, Sister,” she mutters, folding her arms over her chest.

“Come with me.”

“Yes, Sister.”

The sound of their footsteps echoes off the cement floor and reverberates inside Toni’s head. (She squints her eyes shut. Maybe then the constant headache would go away.)

_“TT?”_

Toni’s head snaps up. (It’s just a hallucination. It’s not real.)

She presses her thumbs into her fists. (But it’s cherry cough drop and navy blue swirls and textured paint brush handles, and it _feels_ so fucking real it hurts.)

“Take a seat in this room. I’ll be back in just a moment.”

Nodding, Toni’s knees buckle and she sinks into the cold metal chair right as the door swings shut.

She twists her face into a frown, pulling the corners on her mouth as far down as she can in a vain attempt to prevent the tears from falling. (How can a nickname make  _her_ cry? The youngest serpent in Riverdale, crying over two letters. _What would my dad say?_ ) 

(Would Cheryl hate her if she knew the truth? If she knew everything?)

Toni scrubs at her eyes. (What _is_ the truth?)

She sits back further in the chair. (Everyone tells her she’s a horrible person because of some girl named Heather. Someone who she doesn’t remember and who doesn’t remember her.)

“Antoinette, do you know a Cheryl Blossom?” Sister Livingston pokes her head into the room.

“Yeah.” Toni glares at the nun. “Why?”

“She’s been crying for ‘TT’ and ‘Toni’ all night in her sleep. Those are your nicknames, mm?”

Toni’s face falls. “Cheryl’s _here_ ? And she’s been calling _my_ name?” (Her face heats up and she turns away to pretend to be interested in the wall opposite the door.)

Sister Livingston raises an eyebrow. “That’s correct. We had to give her quite a lot of medication to stop her from waking everyone.”

“Medication?” (The word is a needle under Toni’s skin, numbing her from the rest of the word. She knows the horrors of this place. She knows the traumas they cause.)

“Mhm. She’s in for a rough morning.” Sister Livingston shakes her head quickly, taking a step back into the hall. “Enough about that now. I’ve spoken to Sister Woodhouse; We both agree that you need to be placed in the special ward.”

Toni feels her body flood with boiling hot spring water. “Special ward? What the hell did I do? Oh I know, you can’t handle being wrong and you think taking it out on somebody else will make you _feel better_.”

“Right now, Antoinette,” Sister Livingston barks, latching onto Toni’s arm.

“Hey!” She jumps to her feet. “How many times do I have to tell you _not to_ _touch_ _me!_ ”

The nun comes closer to the shorter girl, looming over her. “How many times do I have to tell _you_ to open your eyes to God and repent your sins?”

“How is falling in love a _sin_ -”

“It’s unnatural, your ‘ _love_ ’ is an abomination-”

“How would you know that? There’s a reason you’re a fucking _nun_ , lady, and I’m _sure_ it’s not because of _any_ shit God said-”

“How dare you!”

“How dare _I?_ You medicate _children_ and hold them _hostage_ for figuring themselves out!” She can practically see the steam pouring from Sister Livingston’s ears as she tries to work out what to say next.

“You’re coming with me, young lady.”

“What, did I hit a nerve?” Toni lets out a broken laugh. “And I’m the one who needs fixing.” She sighs at the expression on the woman’s face, reluctantly allowing herself be moved to the ‘special ward’ to avoid a harsher punishment than she was already doomed from the start to get.

Sister Livingston forces into a completely white room. No windows, no bed, no nothing. The door swings shut and the lock clicks, and Toni knows she’s alone.

She presses an ear against the wall. (Silence. The opposite of her mind, which screams and yells and cries through bared teeth.)

“Whatever,” Toni scoffs, turning to the doorknob. She pulls a bobby pin out of her shoe. (She's suddenly feeling incredibly grateful FP had insisted all new Serpents learn how to get out of sticky situations like this one. Without him, she might have lost her mind in here.)

Toni pokes the pin into the slit where a key is supposed to go. She wiggles it around, praying for it work.

It snaps in half.

“Ah. Fuck.”

A minor inconvenience, but an inconvenience nonetheless.

She chooses the most intact piece and sets back to work, gritting her teeth. Luckily for her, the ‘special room’ isn’t heavily guarded as most ‘patients’ are put into straight jackets and drugged. ( _Got to work faster,_ _they’re on their way to do that to me right now._ )

Almost.. There.. (Her hands shake, her vision is clouding, she can’t hear anything, it doesn’t matter, she’s almost out-)

Toni rams into the door with her shoulder, exploding into the deathly silent hallway.

“ _Toni Topaz_?”

Her heart rate skyrockets. (Shit, shit, shit, shit.)

(The voice is spearmint bubblegum, and it reminds her of butterfly wings and D major seven and summer breeze and she can’t stand up straight.)

“Toni, you need to get out of here!” A boy with striking red hair approaches her, fear in his eyes.

“Who are you?”

He freezes, face falling. “You don’t.. You don’t remember me? After everything that happened?”

“Hang on.” Toni studies his face, furrowing her eyebrows. “You’re the boy in the painting. Jay-Jay?”

A smile grows on his spearmint gum lips. “That’s me. Why are you here?”

Toni shrugs. “Dunno. I just broke out, so I didn’t really have time for any questions. How are you here by yourself anyways, aren’t you like only fourteen? And it’s like midnight, too.”

“Yeah, well, aren’t you like only thirteen?” Jason chuckles, quickly sobering up as he remembers the current situation. “My mom said Cheryl was only gonna be here for an hour, but when she didn’t come home with her, I biked over.”

“I heard her voice when I was walking down the corridor near the courtyard in the left wing if that’s any help.”

“If I go, so are you. I won’t let you stay here.”

Toni agrees without hesitation. (Cheryl can’t be far. She _can’t_ be.)

She pulls Jason into the room she had just escaped from, leaving the door slightly cracked. “Here. If I borrow your jacket and you tie my cardigan around your waist, I won’t look as much like an escapee.”

Jason tugs off his black coat and swaps it with the cardigan. (He doesn’t think twice about it, he would do anything for his sister.)

“Let’s go, TT.”

(It feels like he burst a water balloon over her head.) “What did you just call me?”

“TT. That’s just what Cheryl used to call you.”

“I only met her yesterday.”

“Oh.”

Toni eyes him, noting the way his mouth twitches into an awkward smile and how he looks away as fast as he can without looking conspicuous and how he plays with the buttons on the cardigan to fill the empty space (and how he has near-black mocha eyes just like Cheryl and how he laughs just like Cheryl he even has the damn flaming red hair just like Cheryl).

“Just.. Come on, if we don’t hurry we’re going to get caught.”

Jason nods, still twisting the buttons between his thumb and his forefinger. “Yeah.”

Toni feels like she knows him, but she can’t place her finger on it. _How does he know me, though?_

“So you don’t remember me?” He finally looks over. “Not at all?”

She shrugs. “I feel like I do- I feel like I _should_. I just.. Don’t. It’s like your hidden in the back of my mind, and I lost the key.”

“Oh,” Jason repeats, gaze shifting to his shoelaces. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? About what?”

“..Everything, okay? Everything.” His voice is a dull whisper.

“Jason, tell me the truth.”

“That _is_ the truth.”

His paper butterfly lips press into a thin line and his hands curl into fists and Toni can see the lies hiding underneath his darkening near-black mocha eyes, but she goes with him anyway.

Because Jason is the closest thing to Cheryl she has left, and Cheryl is the closest thing to a real family she’s ever had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hell yeah, I fixed the notes problem
> 
> (turns out it was just me being an idiot, not an actual glitch, haha whoops)
> 
> ((Minor spoiler in the comment section cuz ur too smart for me))


	5. Blue and Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their stories have been rewritten so many times, no one is really sure who they were in the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the unexpected hiatus, a *ton* of stuff came up and I’ve been super busy  
> (If the writing seems different or anything, it’s probably because it’s been so long since I wrote anything for this story)
> 
> Anyways, thanks for sticking around and I hope you enjoy this chapter :)

“Jason, there’s nobody in the cafeteria after midnight.” Exasperation drips from Toni’s voice and she folds her arms over her chest. “We don’t  _ need  _ to be quiet.” 

He rolls his eyes, mocking her stance. “ _ We don’t need to be quiet,  _ she says, two minutes before being caught by nuns and thrown back into that isolation room.”

“We love an optimist,” Toni mutters. 

“Yeah, yeah, now where’s the left wing?”

“..On the left side of the building.”

“Wow, really? I mean how do we  _ get  _ there, stupid.”

“Right. Duh.” Toni pokes her head out of the room to check if the coast is clear. “Unfortunately, that side is usually crawling with nuns. Sister Livingston brought me by there before I got sent to the room, and it was  _ so  _ busy.” (Terrifying. Not busy- Terrifying.)

“That’s tough.”

“This is a serious situation, Blossom.”

Jason nods. “Yeah.. You’re right. Do you think we’ll get caught?”

“I mean, probably? I’m not sure. You know, I haven’t exactly escaped from any sort of prison before. To be honest, I think we should just bust out of here together and come back with the Sheriff or something so he can help us save Cheryl without getting arrested.”

“Sent to juvie, you mean.”

“Whatever.”

“But maybe your idea  _ is _ better than the one I had,” Jason admits. “ _ God, I’ve been such an awful brother.. _ ” 

Toni looks up from her scuffed up shoes to meet his near-brown mocha eyes. “You are not a bad brother. You literally biked to an institution at twelve thirty a.m. to save your sister when even your parents wouldn’t. You risked getting caught just to save her, and me, for that matter. You are  _ not _ a bad brother. I wish I had a brother as brave as you.”

He runs a hand through his hair, swallowing the sour taste in his mouth. “Toni, I could have saved her from this. I could’ve done something-”

“No, you couldn’t have.”

“Yes I could’ve!” Jason whips around, eyes squeezed tightly shut to hide any traces of bittersweet regret. “You don’t understand.”

The lights outside the windows flicker and they move closer together.

Toni’s lips press into a line as she studies his face. “Tell me what you could’ve done.”

“Are you nuts? We’ll get caught if we stay in the same place too long!”

“Sure, some nuns are gonna come down here for a early morning slice of stale wheat bread. Sounds likely. Now, storytime.” 

Jason’s gaze fell to his hands fidgeting in his lap. “..I guess I should start at the beginning.”

* * *

A knot forms in Cheryl’s chest as she descends the staircase with as much grace as she can muster.

“Mommy, can my friend Toni come over after school tomorrow?” She plasters on a smile, hands clasped by her waist.

Penelope shares a glance with Clifford before sighing and turning back to her daughter. “Who is this  _ Toni? _ ”

“She’s been my friend for ages, mommy. And she’s from the Northside.” (The lie slips from Cheryl’s lips easier than she had expected it to, and she’s not quite sure if she should be happy about that or not.)

“Fine.” Penelope ignores her daughter as best she can while maintaining a conversation with her. “But make sure she is well aware that we don’t tolerate any nonsense in this household.”

Jason’s eyebrows knit together. _ What qualifies as ‘nonsense’ for a couple of eleven year olds goofing off?  _

“Of course, mommy!” Her teeth catch her lower lip to keep her expression blank. (If she's too happy about anything, it’s bound to be taken away. She doesn’t want that to happen with Toni.)

* * *

“But I just met h-?”

“Shh, I’m getting there..”

* * *

 

“Cheryl,” Jason starts, pushing her door open without knocking first. 

He stops.

His sister rests in Toni’s arms, and a peaceful aura radiates from the pair.

It’s when Cheryl curls closer into the other girl’s side that Jason decides it’d be better if he left them be. (For god’s sake, Cheryl looks  _ happy _ for once, and he wasn’t about to be the one to take that away from her.)

“I’ll come back later.” He backs out, shutting the door as quietly as he can.

Heels click against the steps leading up from the foyer. “Jason? What’re you doing standing outside of your sister’s room?”

“I just had to ask her if she’d seen my, uh, baseball cap. I think I left it at school but I can’t remember.”

Penelope grazes Jason’s cheek with the back of her hand. “You wore that hat ten minute ago, sweetheart.” She leans in, close to his ear. “If you’re going to inherit the family business, you’re going to have to learn to be a better liar.”

He nods silently, watching her hand reach for the doorknob.

“Mother, wait.”

“What is it?”

“..Never mind. It’s nothing.” He hurries away, dread curling in the pit of his stomach.

_ “Cheryl Marjorie Blossom, what do you think you’re doing?” _

Jason freezes as the words cascade down his spine like a glass of ice water, chilling him to the bone.

“Clifford, come here.”

He hears his father's footsteps approach, heavy on the carpeted hardwood.

“What is it, dear?”

“You’ll never believe what I walked in on  _ your _ daughter doing with her.. Little  _ friend _ .”

The all too familiar sobs emanating from the room make the hair on Jason’s arms stand up. ( _ My fault, my fault, my fault, my fault. _ )

Penelope pushes past him, Cheryl and Toni in tow. “Jason, go to your room. I have to have a little chat with these two.”

“Yes, mother.”

* * *

“How come I don’t remember that?”

“Because they brought you here. They brought you here, and they tortured and drugged the two of you until you could barely remember your own names.” Jason face falls and his paper butterfly wing lips tremble. “I’m sorry, Toni, I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t remember that. Forgetting everything, I mean,” she clarifies.

Jason shakes his head, forcing himself to meet her eyes. “They told Cheryl she had suffered head trauma falling out of a treehouse- I don't think you got the same story she did. Then I guess they rebuilt your memories.”

“Of course my parents would let this happen,” Toni mutters. 

“What?”

“When I was eight, I got invited to my teacher’s wedding. I told my mom and dad all about this wonderful man Mr. R was going to marry, and how happy they were going to be together. I guess my dad thought his belt would get me to stop thinking ‘that way’.”

She scoffed as Jason’s eyes widened. “Oh, don’t act like that’s worse than your parents. No offense.”

His shoulders slumped. “None taken.”

“I had a question I was gonna ask you.”

“Ok. What is it?”

“I forgot what I was gonna say.”

Jason cracks a smile. “Take your time.”

“Oh yeah! Do you know a girl named Heather Montreal?”

The color drains from his face. “Yeah.”

“Well, who even is she?” Toni’s forehead creases. “I feel like I know her. I just can’t put my finger on it.”

“I-” Jason swallows, opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again. “Listen, you’re gonna call me crazy, but-”

_ Click. Click. Click. _

Slow, heavy footsteps cut him off mid sentence.

“Well, well, well. What have we here?” Sister Livingston’s voice is sticky and thick, flowing over Toni’s body like a layer of boiling tar.

_ “Heather, run!”  _

Toni scrambles to her feet and sprints out of the room without missing a beat, heart throbbing painfully in her ears _. He’ll be okay. He has to be okay.  _ (She’ll forever remember this moment as the last time she saw Jason Blossom.)

Her flats slap against the stone floor as she skids around the corner into the lobby.

Spikes of panic drive into her side with every step she takes, but she knows if she doesn’t keep going she’ll be caught, and thrown back into that room, and  _ never see Cheryl or Jason again. _

Numb fingers grapple with the door handle.

Footsteps pound closer and closer with every breath.

_ “Antoinette, come here this instant!” _

No time to think, no time to hesitate, no time to plan-

She doesn’t remember throwing a chair at the window. She doesn’t remember cutting her legs on shards of glass when she escaped. She doesn’t remember falling two stories onto the pavement. She doesn’t remember blue and red lights taking her away.

And -not for the first time- she doesn’t remember cherry cough drop flavored words or long, red sheets of hair (or near mocha eyes or textured red-tipped paint brushes).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof (and yes, toni did notice that Jason called her heather, but she didn’t question it because she was kind of busy escaping)


End file.
